


Pies of the Pecan Variety

by whitesheets



Category: Picnic (1955), Picnic - Inge
Genre: 1950s, Angst, Drama, F/M, Marriage, Romance, Small Towns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:47:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22955077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whitesheets/pseuds/whitesheets
Summary: Some nights, they would sit on the porch and she would fall asleep on his shoulder listening to him talk, and he'd say: "Wake up, Rosie," and she would do as he said, waking up to his fingers running through her hair, and she would think the warmth in her soul was affection.
Relationships: Howard Bevans/Rosemary Sydney
Comments: 5
Kudos: 3





	Pies of the Pecan Variety

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Arthur O'Connell and Rosalind Russell's brilliant performances in the 1955 film adaptation of William Inge's Pulitzer-prize winning play, _Picnic_. 
> 
> Yes, I know this is an extremely obscure pairing and the chances of anyone reading this is next to zero, but I saw [this](https://www.instagram.com/p/B60b_FYnS14) wonderful still and it practically wrote itself.
> 
> No beta, please excuse any mistakes.

It took Rosemary all of fifteen minutes riding in the car with Howard, to realise that she couldn’t marry him. His silence and a potent air of reluctance, brooding, and complete lack of excitement made her mind up for her as they drove past whitewashed picket fences, housewives hanging up the sheets to dry, children chattering and occasionally squealing at each other. Maybe twenty minutes ago, she could have entertained herself in such a position. 

But now, _now_ , Rosemary’s faith in what they could have had crumbled amidst the dawning clarity that he simply did not care for her in the least. He didn’t care, not enough to propose marriage to begin with, not even after the way she’d trusted him. Not enough to say a word to her since they'd started driving, or even pretend to smile, or be reassuring. No, he was silent and stoic, knuckles white against the steering wheel, hat lopsided on his ridiculous head. She used to find it funny, rather endearing, but now, she couldn’t find anything funny about Howard Bevans. 

Oh, she wasn’t under any kind of delusion as to the type of relationship they had but she had always believed that there was _some_ kind of emotional basis there. A flirtation whenever he called her Rosie in the quiet moments, a little bit more than friendship. They were kindred spirits, she’d thought, even if he wasn't particularly romantic and she wasn't particularly in love with him. 

Rosemary turned away, looked outside the window at the whitewashed buildings they drove past. 

That bastard. He had made her _beg_.

She had been good to Howard in _all_ sense of the word, hadn’t she? Whenever he was troubled, to her he would go with a bottle of whiskey - and she would listen and listen, even when her eyelids grew heavy and her mind occupied by the next days’ classes, she would give him her time willingly as he rambled on about double-crossing business partners, his lost youth (what about _her_ youth, she wanted to scream but never did), his eighty-year-old mother’s worsening dementia and dreams left in ashes. She listened to him because she felt something wistful for him, for he was kind and gentle, albeit in an unremarkable sort of way compared to men like Hal. But if she really thought about it, there was a reason why she'd turn down 'men like Hal' in her youth. Beyond immediate attraction that wouldn't last, she'd always preferred men who had some kind of direction in life. It just so happened that she'd never prioritised that part of her life until it was too late and there weren't any options to prioritise anymore.

Howard had his flaws as she had hers but they could go together, comfortable and safe. Some nights, they would sit on the porch and she would fall asleep on his shoulder, listening to him talk, and he'd say: "Wake up, Rosie," and she would do as he said, waking up to his fingers running through her hair, and she would think the warmth in her soul was affection. Sometimes, he would drop by with a bag of freshly stocked coffee, knowing she was busy with term papers, and she’d cut him a slice of the pecan pie he liked so much. Most times, it would turn into two slices and on rare occasions, three slices, before he finally said goodnight. She was partial to plain old apple pie herself but baked more pies of the pecan variety than she ever did the apple. They talked sometimes, about things like making a go at marriage, and he'd say _someday_ which she now knew meant never.

Her eyes stung. The car rumbled along as she kept looking outside the window in silence. She couldn’t look straight ahead because it would mean she could see the stupid, lost, look on his face out of the corner of her eye and it made her heart twist painfully. She kept waiting, like a fool, for him to say something, anything and he never made a pip.

Well, if he wasn’t going to say a word, she would.

“Stop the car, Howard.” Her voice was shakier than she’d meant it to be.

His head whipped to look at her like a deer in the headlights.

“Wha-?”

“I said, stop the car.” Steadier this time. She tried to imagine speaking to the naughtiest child in her classroom, injecting a firmness in her voice that she didn’t feel.

“But why?” he said, as if she’d said the most dastardly thing. 

“We just drove past a bus stop.” Rosemary hadn’t thought things through but knew that she couldn’t go with him. As she heard her own words aloud, the resolve strengthened in the pit of her stomach. “I’m going to get out of this car and walk there.”

“Why?” he repeated again, like an idiot. This time, he slowed the car down and pulled it close to the curb before pulling the handbrakes.

She forced herself to look straight at him. “There will be no marriage. I don’t want to get married.”

His eyes widened. “But Rosemary!”

“Don’t you Rosemary me,” she snapped and pushed the passenger door open. She’d worn her best suit today but she wasn’t in the mood to be prim and proper right now. Howard had come around to her side of the car and was staring at her, bewildered. She reached in through the backseat unladylike, and yanked her suitcase out through the window.

“Where are you going?”

“Anywhere but here,” she said, crisply, and started walking towards the bus stop about fifty feet away. “You go home, Howard.”

“I don’t understand you at all,” Howard said, following her helplessly. “I thought you wanted to get married!”

Rosemary’s heart twisted again but she bit her lip hard to stop it from trembling. “So did I. But not anymore,” she declared without breaking her stride and sped up her pace until she reached the bus stop.

“But why not?” he asked again, stopped right beside her, his car, abandoned fifty feet away. 

The sun was hot and she squinted into the distance. She hoped he’d taken the car keys with him, she thought, and then shook her head. It had become such second nature for her to think about him, to even worry for him, sometimes. It had crept up on her, so suddenly, this terrible realisation that she couldn’t live with him _knowing_ what little care he had for her, how little he _wanted_ to marry her. It unsettled her significantly because it meant she cared more than she thought she did. She gripped the handle of her suitcase tighter and pointedly refused to look at him.

“It just won’t work out, that’s all. You go right home and marry someone else. Or don’t get married. Either way, I’m not coming with you.” He opened his mouth to respond, but she interrupted him. “Look, there’s a bus coming and I’m going to get on it.”

And there was. Through the windows, she could see a third of it filled with people from all walks of life, young, old, men and women. She’d have to go away for a while, to think. She couldn’t do much thinking now, not when Howard was staring at her like that.

“Couldn’t I do anything to make you stay, Rosie?” Howard said, desperately, and took her arm. She wanted to feel vindicated that _he_ was the one begging now, but couldn’t find the will to - not with her throat tightening up and chest aching the way it was. He couldn’t make her stay, even if he wanted to. And he would soon realise that he didn’t really mean what he said, anyway. 

Rosemary pulled her arm away from him and straightened her suit. 

The bus pulled up and she took a deep, fortifying breath. She was giving up, probably, her last chance at marriage but what was the use? Marriage didn’t mean a damn thing if the other person didn’t want to be there. She had grown so used to being alone. She just had to start liking it a lot more than she did.

“Have a great life, Howard,” she said, and got on the bus.

She didn’t wait for a response. If she had to guess, he probably didn’t say anything at all. Fighting the urge to look at him, she stared straight ahead at the back of a balding man’s head and waited until the bus started to move before looking out the window again.

* * *

Howard drove home in a shocked state - he must be, for he felt nothing but acute numbness until he climbed the steps to his bedroom and closed the door behind him. And then, suddenly, the numbness gave way to an overwhelming sense of regret. Feeling his head start to spin, he undressed, rinsed off quickly in the shower and climbed into bed. It was barely evening but he needed to lie down. Sleep wouldn’t come though, the anxiety from the day still hovering like an unwelcome visitor. He tossed and turned and stared at the ceiling.

Rosie had gone and _left_ him, left the town entirely and he didn’t have a clue as to where she was headed to. She had been so happy this morning when he’d gone to Flo's, looking very nice in her lovely suit but he hadn’t been able to find the words to tell her the truth of what he'd intended to say. By then, it was too late and like a trapped fox, all he did was whimper and go along for the ride, wondering how the hell he'd end up in a situation like this and wishing he hadn't shown up.

He hadn't always been so speechless, though. He had said many things to her that night, had made her blush even in her inebriated state, had whispered that she was wonderful and she truly was. He had never dreamed she could feel so wonderful in his arms, how well she fit with him. 

And so, the further they drove, and the more he’d given careful thought to his predicament, the more he felt it wasn't quite a predicament at all. He'd been so afraid of getting tied up the way his friends were, getting caught in boring old marriages with wives who would inadvertently run their lives… that he'd forgotten how much he actually liked Rosemary. Quietly, he'd made up his mind that he ought to start things the proper way. He was attempting - again - to find a way to tell her he hadn’t gotten a ring yet but then before he had the chance, she'd abandoned him. 

He’d obviously managed to do something awful in the span of fifteen minutes to make her run out on him that way and he didn’t know what it was.

For a brief moment, he toyed with the idea of asking Flo and the girls where she could have gone - maybe she had family in the next town? - but worried about what he would tell them when he got there. That she’d refused to marry him at the last minute and skipped town? She was the absolute _last_ person on earth that would do such a thing, and she’d gone and done it. Would they even believe him? She was always dependable and did her duty to a fault. He couldn’t even begin to think about what he would say tomorrow, or even this evening when his neighbours realised his car was back. Shuddering, he imagined their reactions when they realised he was home and Rosemary wasn’t with him.

She’d looked at him in such a way… he couldn’t explain what it was but it made him feel lousy, as if he'd lost something important. And the way she’d said those last words to him… _Have a great life, Howard_ … made his stomach churn. He’d never really imagined such a possibility - just as he’d never really imagined leaving Kansas - of Rosemary ever going away. He'd somehow gotten used to the idea that she would always be here, a good friend to him and sometimes more.

And now… Howard sighed; his head hurt.

He wished he'd said something sooner. A ring would have looked beautiful on her hand.

* * *

For one week, Howard went to the store at six in the morning and came home by five, like clockwork, without any divergence from this routine. Everyone was talking about Madge and Rosemary leaving like that, and him being the owner of one of the busiest general stores in town made it difficult to keep a low profile. The best he could do was stay at the store and avoid all forms of going out.

Besides, he was unused to not having Rosemary around to call on, even if it was just for a brief coffee with the girls or an evening nightcap with Dennis down at the bar, where they’d flirt around with the girls there. He didn't know what he'd say to Dennis or his other friends, if he _did_ see them, so he kept away.

A while back, he’d started a friendship with Mary Miller, who had just moved to town to take care of her ailing father. She was a widow with no children, about forty, Howard reckoned. She was sort of plain but nicely-dressed like all city women were, but very sweet and she’d somehow taken a fancy to him. Every now and then, she would drop by the store and drop off something she’d baked. Why did all women seem to like baking pies? He wasn’t fond of them, and the only pie he liked was Rosemary’s pecan pie because she didn’t use vanilla and it would seem all pies had vanilla in them. Anyhow, Mary would bake him pies and he would be too polite to refuse it and end up with a whole lot of uneaten pie.

Once, he’d brought two whole pies over to Flo’s and the girls, and when he had told them Mary Miller had been the source of the pies, Madge and Millie had giggled and made fun of him for it. It had been all good fun, but he found himself at the edge of his seat, worrying about what Rosemary thought because she didn't say a word while they were digging into him and God knows, she _loved_ having a laugh at his expense. It was strange when Rosemary was quiet or pensive, she so rarely was. There was always a witty comment here, and there, and she was so smart, Howard sometimes felt stupid with her. It put him so off-kilter that he had begun to hope that she'd go along with everyone else and poke fun at him too. But then later, with a forkful of pie, she had pronounced her verdict: “Too much butter,” and he started to breathe again. When she’d given him a cheeky smile, he forgot all about Mary Miller.

And then came the day, when Rosemary had herself dropped by the store after school to pick up her usual groceries - bread, eggs, cheese and all that sort of thing - and was chatting with him at the counter when Mary dropped by at that very instant with her pie. 

It had gone on so strangely, Howard wasn’t sure at all what he’d witnessed.

“Oh hello, Ms Sydney,” Mary had said, very politely. She was always polite, as newcomers were. 

“Good afternoon, Mrs Miller,” Rosemary had responded, also very politely. “What pie is it today?” she’d said, sweetly. It made Howard nervous.

Mary had smiled awkwardly and shot him a look accusingly. “Rhubarb pie,” she’d coughed, as if she hadn’t really wanted to say. 

Rosemary nodded. “It must be delicious,” she’d said, not unkindly. And then she picked up her bag of groceries and Howard felt a pang of disappointment, he’d hoped she would have stayed a bit longer to chat today. “I’m afraid Howard isn’t fond of pies,” she’d said. 

Howard had felt the heat rise up his neck to the back of his ears in an instant.

Rosemary was tall and towered over Mary by a good three inches so it made Mary look helpless and small when she was forced to look up that way.

“Oh.” Mary had deflated right in front of them.

He had coughed and stared daggers at his friend. “Oh, now Rosemary, I _do_ like pies,” he had said, feeling badly for poor Mary. She'd gone on looking so dejected that Howard blurted: “As a matter of fact, I love rhubarb pie!”

“You do?” both women said. Mary’s voice had been hopeful, Rosemary’s utter disbelief.

“I do!” Howard had emphasised, taking the box from Mary without even asking. “I especially like the ones you make,” he had felt compelled to try his best to make Mary feel better. Nobody could recover from a Rosemary Sydney comment without some help, especially if she’d meant for it to knock you right down. She just had a _way_ of saying things. He made a show of opening the box and taking a whiff of the pie, still warm. “It smells delicious already!” Summoning up his entire courage, Howard turned to Rosemary. “Doesn’t it?”

Surrender wouldn’t have been the word he would have used to describe the look she threw him. Her eyes had been dark - they had always been dark, and deep and he could never really tell how she felt about things.

“Of course it does,” she’d said, as if there had never been any question about it. “My apologies, Mrs Miller. It would seem that Howard’s tastes have changed.”

“Oh, that’s fine,” Mary had said, smiling again. “People’s tastes change all the time!”

Well, he couldn’t say much about people’s tastes changing but _something_ had changed in the room and Howard wished he had known what.

“Yes, it would seem that way. Have a good evening, Mrs Miller. Howard,” Rosemary had said, still politely, and left. In that instant, staring after her retreating back, he had wished he hadn’t tried quite so hard to make Mary feel better. 

After that, Mary had continued dropping by, and Rosemary had stopped almost entirely. If she needed groceries, he had an inkling that she got them from Orwell’s store and felt a pang of resentment, for the rivalry between him and Tom Orwell was well-known in town. He had gone over to Flo’s another time, along with the pies, fully intending to explain to Rosemary that he _still_ didn’t like pies - that he’d said what he did because of what _she’d_ said to Mary Miller in the first place. She’d stayed in her room though (a headache, Flo had told him), and Howard hadn’t gotten the chance to speak to her that evening. 

It came to him out of the blue, two weeks later, one afternoon, with Mary chatting with him at the store. Listening to her, Howard had come to a most important realisation - he’d missed Rosemary a great deal. It had been a funny thing - he and Rosemary had not argued, there had been no serious disagreement and yet, he felt as if he had committed a serious error in judgement.

With this whole silly thing about pies, the loss he had keenly felt at the beginning was the knowledge that he had effectively traded Rosemary’s company for Mary’s. He hadn’t quite understood how it had come to be that way but listening to Mary go on about her the new record-player she’d bought, her earnest blue eyes had made everything obvious to him. He had wished it was Rosemary there instead of Mary Miller, talking to him about the pranks her kids at school pulled, some new picture she wanted to see.

Gravely, he had informed Mary Miller that he was sorry, that he did not enjoy pies all too much and that he didn’t think she should continue wasting all her effort on him. In all his forty over years of life, he had never experienced such a lack of regret at turning away a woman’s attention. Being the city-sophisticate, she’d gamely thanked him for his honesty and then, said the oddest thing: “Ms Sydney would be glad to hear of it,” before she went on her way.

On the evening of that same day itself, he had put on his hat and made his way to Flo’s with great resolve. He had Mary’s pie with him, but he could say, once and for all, that it was the _last_ pie she would ever bake him. Flo had said just as much, when she bellowed upstairs: “Rosemary, Howard’s here with the _last_ pie Mary Miller would ever bake him! You’ve just got to come downstairs, he’s got whiskey too! We’re all dying to hear about it! Come join us, honey.”

It had taken a while, but 'honey' finally came downstairs, and he never felt gladder in his life.

Howard wished he knew what to do now, like how he'd known telling Mary he couldn't accept her generosity any longer was the right thing to do. He kept worrying about where Rosemary had gone, and how people were talking about him, because nobody believed that Rosemary Sydney would ever run away just like that.

On Saturday evening, Flo showed up at his door, looking sheepish.

"Look," she said, quickly, without pleasantries. "I'm not sure if coming here was the right thing to do…"

"Please come in," he managed, despite his surprise.

Flo didn't move an inch from where she stood, holding her handbag stiffly.

"I'm sorry about Madge," he offered, kindly.

"I knew that Hal Carter was a bad influence," Flo snorted, hard-like. "She'll come home soon enough, I know her. She wouldn't last out there on her own with a man like him." Even as she said it, Howard thought she was putting on a damn brave front. "I didn't come here to talk about Madge. Rosemary is coming back tomorrow."

"Tomorrow!" Howard felt a flash of utter relief.

Flo shuffled her feet. "Yes. Tomorrow. She called this morning. I don't know what happened between the two of you and I know this is a personal matter but she said she was going to come to get her things..."

His heart plummeted. "Get her things?"

"Now, she's been a good friend, Howard. I haven't come here before this because it wasn't my place and Rosemary’s always been a private sort of girl. We thought she would come back and tell us, in her own time, you see.” Flo's eyes narrowed, slightly suspiciously. It made him nervous. It was a good imitation of Rosemary’s look of disapproval, except that her blue eyes didn’t look quite as stern. “But now, she tells me she's leaving for good -”

“Oh.” Howard’s heart just about plummeted right to his feet.

“- and wouldn't tell me what you'd done. You must have done _something_. People don't just split up halfway on the way to getting married."

Howard rubbed the back of his neck. "I wish I could give you an answer, Flo. But I don't know myself. She just changed her mind, I suppose." 

"Somehow, I don't believe you. She was so happy."

Oh, he knew! How could he not? Howard saw her brilliant smile again right in his mind’s eye and then her climbing up the bus without even giving him a second look. 

Flo sighed. "Well, I didn't come here for answers. I came here because she'll be home tomorrow afternoon, packing her things and I thought you might want to know."

"Did she - did she ask about me, Flo?" 

"As a matter of fact, she did.” Flo didn’t look too happy about it. “How's Howard keeping, she asked. Like a kicked puppy, I said. She told me not to tell anyone she was coming back. Of course, she meant not to tell you." 

Howard winced.

"And yet, here I am." Flo shook her head. "I like you, Howard. I probably shouldn't, you know. But I just want Rosemary to be happy."

"Uh. Thank you, Flo, I guess."

"Whatever you decide to do tomorrow, it's none of my business." 

But she'd come all the way, Howard thought, even during a time like this with the whole thing about Madge running off to Tulsa. It was _some_ of her business. And she was taking some risk, in betraying Rosemary like that. A little bit of confidence returned to him at Flo's faith in him.

"I don't know what I'll do, honestly I don't. But I promise I'll do something."

* * *

Rosemary picked Sunday morning to return to Flo's house for a good reason. Briefly, she regretted coming and going like this, for making Flo promise to go to Mass and not stay behind to see her at all but quickly pushed the thought away. It was easier this way.

The things she packed were the ones which mattered, like a photograph of her parents, her mother's pearl necklace, some of her favourite suits and dresses. Half an hour, maybe less, was all she needed to look through her possessions and decide on what she wanted to take with her and she could leave town before Father Wilson said _amen_. 

The new apartment she had taken was economical but comfortable and most importantly, private. A few nice pieces of furniture and some plants would finish it up nicely. Her books would have been a nice touch, but she wasn't up for lugging volumes with her and she could always buy new ones - she'd already stumbled upon three bookstores just walking about New York, trying to get a feel of the city. She hadn't meant to end up there, but she hadn't planned on getting on a bus on her wedding day to begin with. When her mind had cleared, a plan started to emerge and on impulse, she had gotten off at the train station. 

There was nothing to lose, she'd reasoned to herself, sitting there waiting for six o'clock to come around. She had bought a ticket for the same day and clutched it in a gloved hand as she debated with herself. She was alone in the world, bar a few distant relatives in Washington, no dependents, few truly good friends, and quite a lot of freedom. What reason did she have to stay behind in Kansas anyway? Howard - well, he'd been a nice distraction, nothing more. She was decently smart, had good experience teaching and could type too. She could make a go at it if she tried hard enough.

Once in New York though, Rosemary had quickly discovered that she could make it. On her first job interview, after a forty-five-minute conference with the principal, she was offered a position teaching English _and_ History for a hundred and ten dollars a week. Her self-confidence boosted, she had started looking out for rooms to rent. The small but pleasant apartment she'd stumbled upon was likely a fluke of some kind. It was as if the Universe and God himself had conspired to give Rosemary's barely-there plan some teeth, the way things had gone on so well. She wasn't going to question it.

And if things didn't work out, she didn't think it could get any worse than being at home, going to the same damn classroom every day, living in the same town as Howard Bevans, watching him go about life, being friendly with Mary Miller. Even Madge had taken a chance and left the town. At least in a brand new city where nobody knew her, she could have a brand new start and forget what had happened between Howard and herself.

She was almost done folding her clothes when she heard someone knock on the bedroom door and her heart leapt to her throat. Did Flo change her mind and decide to come home early to see her? Who else could it be but Flo? Nobody else would have known that there was someone in here. She hadn't made much noise either. The knock came again, softly, unsure. Rosemary stood frozen, holding her breath. The longer she thought about it, the more she figured she didn't have the nerve to see her friends, to make excuses about why she'd 'changed her mind' - she couldn't stand the thought of it.

A whole minute went by, and Rosemary finally breathed again when she didn’t hear anything else. There was no sense in her actions - how would she leave later without running into Flo at all, then? - but her logic had taken flight the moment she chose not to answer the door. She’d just have to send a nice gift and hope Flo would forgive her in due time. Maybe she could leave behind her nice French perfume and -

“Rosemary?”

Oh, God.

It hadn't been Flo at all. 

“Would you let me in?”

Rosemary was suddenly seized by burning anger. She could _kill_ Flo for this! She bit her lip to prevent herself from answering. 

“I know you’re here.” 

Then she heard the doorknob turn and flew into motion, realising she had not locked the door, but it was too late. She had to screech to a halt, almost comically, when the door opened and she barely inches away from slamming into the man she wouldn’t marry. Unconsciously, she took a step back, as his eyes took in her open suitcase on the bed. It occurred to her that he’d never seen her room before as she watched him take in the details.

A beat of silence passed.

“Where have you been?” Howard finally asked. 

“What’s it to you?” she snapped, defensively. The hurt in his eyes almost made her feel bad. After all, _she_ had been the one to run out on him. His silly hat was still lopsided on his head. She sighed. “I’m sorry, Howard. I didn’t - I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Oh, it’s all right, Rosemary.” He took a cautious step inside. “Perhaps I did do something to deserve it.”

“Howard -”

“That’s why I came here… I just wanted to understand.”

She turned away from him at his earnestness and busied herself with arranging the items in her suitcase. “There’s nothing to understand. I just thought it was best we didn’t make a mistake. You didn’t do anything wrong.” 

“I didn’t?” He seemed surprised.

When it came down to it, Rosemary couldn’t blame him. He’d been good enough to go through with it, even if he didn’t feel much for her. He could have rejected her outright. He was standing in front of her right now, wasn’t he? He’d pursued her, in a way. Her anger died as quickly as it came, leaving behind resignation in its wake. 

“No, you didn’t. It just wouldn’t work, Howard. You don’t care about me. There wouldn’t be any basis to this marriage. I couldn’t marry a man, knowing that he’d resent me for it and I’ll start on resenting him for not wanting to marry me in the first place and then where would we be then? On a one way road to Reno.” 

"It wouldn't be a mistake."

She refused to acknowledge what he'd said and clicked her suitcase shut. “And besides, I’m going to make a go at leaving this old place, something I should have done a long time ago.”

He hovered around her anxiously. “Where are you going? For good?”

“I’ve got a new job in New York,” she said. 

“New York!” 

“Yes. On my very first try, Howard. Do you know how that makes me feel?” She picked up her gloves and started pulling them on. “Like a fool for not leaving earlier. Right after Mother died, I could have left and found something better. But I’m going now. I’ve got to.”

“Oh, well, that’s … that’s wonderful,” he said, looking absolutely miserable. “I’m proud of you, Rosemary.” 

She paused, wanting to go to him, as she would have so readily done in the past, but held herself back. He was good at appealing to her sympathies but she knew better now. 

“Thank you, Howard. Well, I’m going to go now.”

But before she could say her goodbyes, he picked up her suitcase. 

“I’ll drive you to the train station.”

Rosemary balked at the idea of being confined in close quarters with him any longer than necessary. “Thank you, but there’s no need.”

“Oh, I insist,” he said, already walking out of the room with her suitcase. “You’re leaving _me_ at the altar. The least you could do would be to allow me the dignity of sending you off.” 

“Sending _me_ off?!” she exclaimed, and yet a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. It irked her that she didn't think twice about following him behind him obediently. She didn’t stop him when he opened the door of his car for her, nor when he started up the engine.

Rosemary would die before ever admitting to him that she liked it when he got stubborn and grew a backbone. It was like that ridiculous rivalry with Tom Orwell which never failed to make her chuckle - she never could quite figure out why Howard felt so strongly about the man, he practically turned into a different person whenever she brought Tom up.

It took no longer than ten minutes of driving when she realised they were _not_ in fact, headed towards the train station.

“I suppose we’re taking a shortcut?” she said, archly.

“No,” he said, not missing a beat.

“Then where are we going, exactly?”

He cleared his throat. “Well, we’re just not heading there yet.”

“Why on earth not?” she demanded, especially as he missed yet another turn he could have taken to get back on the right route. 

“Don’t worry, we’ll get there. We’re just making a detour.”

She narrowed her eyes. “What kind of _detour_?”

“We’re going to get married first.”

Even before she could understand her own reaction at his words, her brain was ahead of her heart and the first thing that came out of her mouth wasn’t necessarily what she felt.

“What makes you so sure I’ll marry you?” she retorted, testily. In all her years of knowing Howard Bevans, she’d never heard him sound so damn sure of himself. Irritation swelled at his assumption, and traitorously, her heart swelled right along with it.

“You’d just have to. I’d already gotten a ring.” He kept on driving, but she could see the twinkle in his eye. Oh, she wanted to knock that look right off his face but her stomach was doing somersaults.

“Is this your idea of a proposal?”

“Uh huh.”

“You don’t want to marry me, Howard. I know you don’t.” She sounded like a teacher again, lecturing a particularly obstinate student.

He ignored her.

"I did a whole lot of thinking last night. I thought about you, Rosemary, how - how lost I felt the whole time you were gone. I didn't know how you'd take it if I showed up this morning but I had to see you. And when you said that bit about me not caring about you, me resenting you, you didn't say a single word about how _you_ felt… oh, I don't know, I thought you would say something like 'Go away, Howard, I don't care for you' but you never did… and it just got me thinking."

"You? Thinking?" she scoffed, but it lacked bite.

"Yes, I did. You _couldn't_ marry me, you said. And I've got a feeling it's because you think I don't want to marry you."

“Howard…” She no longer had the heart to keep up the act. Her throat was closing up.

“Rosemary, you’re the smartest girl I know but you are so very wrong. I do want to marry you.”

“That’s not true. You made me beg.” How she hated to cry, but she couldn't help it, the tears spilled over her cheeks.

His voice dropped, becoming soft, tender even. “Oh, don’t cry, Rosie. I - I shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry. I just wasn’t prepared. But I’ve thought long and hard about it and I don’t like the idea of living the rest of my life without you in it.” He stole a quick glance at her and in that brief moment, she knew he wasn’t fooling around.

“I still want to leave, Howard. I've made up my mind,” she whispered. “Even if you don’t resent me, I’ll resent you for keeping me here if I married you.”

With his eyes on the road ahead, he declared: “We won’t resent each other. I won’t resent you. I’ll do better than that. I’ll love you, Rosie. That’s if you’ll let me. We’ll leave this place together.”

“You mean, you’ll come with me?”

“What kind of man would I be if I let my wife go off on her own to a big ol’ city like New York? I’ve got my bags packed in the back.”

She couldn’t help but laugh through her tears. “That’s very presumptuous of you.”

“I couldn’t think of why you’d turn me down. You’ll see, it’s a really nice ring.”

“I suppose the return policy is no good," she said, tremulously. 

“It doesn’t even have one,” he said.

Rosemary shook her head, thinking of Flo and how she _must_ send her a really nice gift after this.

“How terrible,” she sighed, but when he reached over to take her hand, she gladly let him.

_fin_


End file.
